Illusion
by emeraldorchids
Summary: Andrea leaves in Paris, but can't forget Miranda. Have they both moved on?


A/N: Started this one years ago, and I'm finally finishing it and posting. Just a one-shot, but it gets pretty steamy. Enjoy!

* * *

 **== ILLUSION ==**

"Fuck you!" she shouted at the electronic device, hurling it across the sidewalk and into the fountain. "Aargh!" She had enough. She was no longer willing to sacrifice herself for a woman who would never truly appreciate her.

Andrea walked over to the nearest bench and sat down. She was shaking, riding high on the adrenaline of her dramatic, albeit stupid, act. She realized that she had no telephone with which to call the airlines or her family. She could have just blocked Miranda's number or not answered the call, but something about throwing the device was cathartic for her. Luckily, she still had her purse and her credit card.

She made her way to an internet cafe, where she was able to print out the flight schedules back to New York, as well as send her parents an email to let them know she was coming home.

When she returned to her hotel room, she made some calls and was able to switch her ticket to an earlier flight home tomorrow. The tickets were nonrefundable, so Miranda would be paying for it whether she used it or not.

Miranda. She couldn't get the woman out of her mind. Just when she realized that she would do anything for her, she had to go and screw over Nigel. It wasn't that Andrea couldn't understand her reasons—she could, actually. It was a business decision, and one that sadly impacted a very well-deserving man. But it's not like he lost his job—he just didn't get the promotion he was expecting. Had Miranda shown a hint of remorse, a sign that she felt bad about her inevitable decision, Andrea would still be at her side. It was the cold, calculated, uncaring attitude that the young woman couldn't come to terms with.

It was no secret that she had a crush on the editor. Nearly every woman at _Runway_ did, and probably half of the men at Elias-Clarke, too. She was incredibly sexy, intriguing, mysterious, and Andrea would be lying if she said she hadn't imagined the editor punishing her after making a mistake. The way the woman whispered "That's all," sent a shiver through her body. She wanted to be used by Miranda, in whatever way the woman pleased.

For a while, it was easy to keep her feelings hidden because she was so busy taking notes or running errands. But when she entered her hotel suite and saw the woman stripped bare, that changed everything. Gone was the image of Miranda the dominatrix, the sex goddess who made her way into the dreams of all her employees. Before her was Miranda Priestly, the fifty-year-old mother-of-two struggling to balance her work and personal life, struggling to maintain her marriage, to provide a normal family for her daughters.

That night changed everything.

Miranda was only out of character for two—maybe three—minutes, but it was enough time for Andrea's heart to burst. She wanted nothing more than to hold the woman and tell her it would be okay, tell her she was a wonderful mother and that her loser of a husband never appreciated her—not the way she would have. Not the way she does. She grew fiercely protective of her. As her assistant, she would do whatever she could to ensure that whatever was within her control would not cause the woman any pain. She wanted to kiss her and make everything better, but then Miranda shut down. The mask was back in place, and it was likely she would never see her again.

That night, as she lay in Christian's bed, her dreams were different, though the subject was always the same. Instead of being used by the woman, she was loving her, helping her, pleasuring her. It was the most amazing feeling in the world, even if only experienced through a dream. She knew that morning that no other lover could ever compete with Miranda, and that saddened her. Miranda was straight; that's all there was to it. She could never have Miranda, and if she chose anyone else, she would be settling. It was quite the unsettling thought.

And then she screwed over Nigel. She knew she was doing it. She didn't apologize for her actions. But Andrea didn't despise her for it, she despised herself for keeping the editor on the pedestal despite that.

A soft knock on her door stirred her from her thoughts. When she opened it, she was more than surprised to see Miranda.

"Since you have not been answering your phone for the past four and a half hours and you're obviously still alive, I am presuming that you've quit your job," the editor said.

All Andrea could do was nod.

"Have you suddenly lost control of your vocal cords? Speak up."

"Yes, Miranda… I quit."

"Well, then," she said. She took a deep breath. "I did not expect you to be such a disappointment."

"I'm sorry—"

"No. You're not. If you were, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Miranda—"

"That's all." She turned and marched down the hallway to the elevators, leaving Andrea standing in the doorway of her hotel room, feeling sad and guilty and incredibly aroused.

"I hate you!" she shouted, slamming the door shut. "But I love you, too," she whispered, sinking down to the floor as tears came over her.

* * *

Miranda was accustomed to seeing her assistants fail. She set them up. She knew they came and went like a revolving door. But Andrea Sachs was different. She was the first woman to grace the halls of _Runway_ that Miranda actually cared about. She made it a point to never become involved with anyone from work, but for Andrea, she would have made an exception.

For years after the young woman's departure, Miranda felt her absence. She longed to wrap her arms around the woman's waist, caress her curves, feel her thighs against her cheek.

She was a television reporter now for the local news station, and Miranda found that she couldn't fall asleep without watching the Channel 12 telecast on DVR. She noticed that the woman used her full name, Andrea, but that all of the Channel 12 commercials pronounced it wrong. The stress belongs on the second syllable, she thought.

It was January 2016, and Miranda found herself, for the first time in her life, attending an event as someone's significant other. It was a charity ball sponsored by Be Heard, an organization that encouraged young members of diverse communities to be politically active and share their stories with the world through a sponsored website. Violet Turner, an editor at _The Economist,_ was on the board of directors for the organization. And she also happened to be Miranda's current love interest.

Miranda Priestly was always a target for the paparazzi, and because of that, she had a strong PR team that was always looking to divert attention and create an illusion. Her marriages, her divorces, the photos of her vacationing in St Barts—it was all a construction, an appearance that Miranda maintained in order to keep her personal life truly personal.

Tonight, she agreed to attend the benefit with Violet, but as Editor in Chief of a leading New York publication, not as her date. Violet was disappointed, but agreed. She understood the lengths Miranda went to protect her image and her family, and at least until her daughters were out of college, she knew that it would have to remain that way.

Miranda had known Violet for exactly eight weeks. She was a beautiful Italian woman with perfect olive skin and long, dark hair, and Miranda was immediately drawn to her. She was wickedly intelligent, and Miranda was often concerned that the woman could do better than her. In bed, Violet was restrained. She preferred foreplay to anything else, and only once did she allow the fashion editor to taste her. After their second date, she bought Miranda a strap-on, which she was still trying to get comfortable with.

They arrived separately to the event at The Bowery, as Violet needed to be there early to greet the organizers and the press. Miranda arrived shortly after the event started and quickly excused herself to the bathroom. She pulled out her phone and texted Violet right away. "I'm not feeling well—I think I should leave," she said.

Violet responded immediately. "Tell me where you are."

"The Ladies' Room off the terrace," Miranda replied. She took a seat on the sofa in the antechamber and nervously pulled her wrap tightly around her shoulders and chest.

"Miranda," Violet said, sweeping in and sitting next to the woman. She gently brushed her cheek and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "You are beautiful, you know that? The most beautiful woman who will be here this evening." She licked the gloss off her lips before pressing a kiss to the older woman's neck. "I want you inside me, so badly," she whispered, continuing to assault Miranda's neck and chest with kisses.

Someone walked into the Ladies' Room and Miranda quickly jerked away, her face growing red.

"Bella, come here," Violet purred. "No one is bringing a camera in here. I understand you need to keep this out of the papers, but you're among friends here. Trust me."

Miranda smiled and nodded. "I'm sorry," she said. She softly ran her fingers through the woman's hair and pulled her in for another kiss.

The door had opened and closed several times, but Miranda's eyes were closed and she was too preoccupied to care. She had chosen to wear a one-piece cotton-blend jumpsuit, thankfully in black, so it would hide any evidence of her arousal.

She heard a gasp that brought her back to reality, and a familiar voice called her name.

"Miranda?!"

She quickly pulled away from Violet and met eyes with none other than Andrea Sachs.

Violet wiped the corners of her lips and stood, reaching out to shake Andrea's hand. "Andy, thanks for coming tonight. So glad you could make it. Have you met Miranda Priestly?"

"Yes, I used to work for her," she said. "That's where I got my start. She taught me that I wasn't made for the fashion world and helped me to find my passion as a reporter," Andrea said. "Miranda, it's nice to see you."

"Li—likewise," Miranda said.

"I'll let you two catch up—I have to freshen up," Violet said. "Andy, again, I'm glad you could make it tonight."

And suddenly Andrea was alone with Miranda Priestly, whom she hadn't seen in eight years.

"I wa—"

"Andrea—" they both spoke at once.

"I want you to know I didn't see anything. You were just having a conversation with Violet Turner," Andrea said.

"Thank you," the editor said quietly. "I, uh, didn't expect you'd be here tonight."

"I've been mentoring one of the scholarship recipients. I didn't realize you knew Vi."

Miranda cringed at the way Violet's nickname flowed from the young woman's lips.

Andrea caught that and quickly clarified, "Violet was a correspondent at Channel 12 when I started. She left for _The Economist_ shortly after, but we've kept in touch."

"I see," Miranda said.

"Look, um, we should get lunch or coffee sometime. I would love to catch up," Andrea said. "I'm going to get back to the event. Um, see you around."

Miranda nodded and watched the young woman walk out the door. Violet approached.

"She won't say anything. Are you okay?"

Miranda nodded.

"Let's mingle," she said.

"You go ahead, I need to fix my hair."

Violet smiled and walked away.

* * *

An hour later, Miranda was still reeling from her encounter. Not only was she shaken by the fact that someone spotted her and the other woman—she also was feeling incredibly nostalgic and emotional after her conversation with Andrea. She had thought those feelings were long gone, but their brief encounter today did nothing if not rekindle them.

Miranda headed towards the bar for another glass of wine, and as she was waiting for the bartender, she spotted Andrea just a few feet away. She retrieved her wine and walked over to the young woman. "Hello again," she said. She had regained enough of her composure from earlier to have a proper conversation with the reporter.

"Miranda, hi," Andrea said, smiling brightly.

"I wanted to tell you how well your career suits you," she said. "It is a good fit."

Andrea smiled. Of course Miranda would never give a normal compliment. "Thank you. Coming from you, I know that means a lot."

Just then another young woman walked up to Andrea and wrapped her arm around her waist. "Sorry, I'm back," the woman said, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.

Andrea blushed and locked eyes with Miranda for a second before looking down at the other woman. "Hey, no worries," she said. "Um, Miranda, this is Ashley Parker. She's in ad sales at the _Times_. Ashley, Miranda Priestly."

"Wow," Ashley said, reaching out and shaking her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Priestly."

Andrea and Miranda both cringed at the name.

"And how do you two know each other?" Miranda asked, feigning innocence. Andrea could see right through it.

"I'm her date," Ashley said, before Andrea could respond. "I'm surprised at how many people I know here! I guess that's what being in the industry for twenty years does, right?"

Andrea bit her lip. She knew Ashley wasn't the brightest older woman, but she was attractive and they got along well enough. She was mortified that she woman was speaking like this to Miranda, though.

"Well, Andrea, it was nice seeing you," Miranda said, clearly ready to make an exit. "Ashley," she said, looking the girl up and down. Her eyes darted over to Andrea. "That's all."

In an instant, Miranda was gone.

Andrea knew she had to go after her. She quickly put down her drink and said something to Ashley about an emergency at work. "I'm sorry, but you should stay. Network, get to know people," she said. Ashley didn't seem to mind.

Andrea knew Miranda's habits at events like this like the back of her hand. Enter, walk to the center of the room, head to the ladies' room, walk the perimeter, stop at the bar, head to the terrace. She quickly scanned the room, and seeing Violet with some other folks by the podium, she made a beeline towards the terrace.

There were about ten people scattered on the terrace, and none of them were Miranda. Just when she was about to give up, she saw some stairs leading down to a lower level, and was relieved to find the fashion editor alone, looking out towards the park.

"Hey," Andrea said quietly. "I thought I might find you out here."

"Old habits never die," she said.

"Nor do old flames," Andrea replied.

Miranda's eyes shot up as she tried to read the look on Andrea's face.

"I never knew you were into…"

"A well-kept secret until tonight," Miranda said. "And you—of all the men or women in New York City…"

"And none of them are you."

Miranda cleared her throat. "Have you known, um, Ashley, very long?"

"No, she was just a date for the night," she said. "And you?"

"Just a few weeks. It's nothing serious," Miranda added. "Had I known…about you…we could have had such fun."

Andrea sighed. "It's been eight years, and not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of you," she said, moving closer. "Not a night I haven't dreamed of you," she whispered, her lips an inch from the woman's ear.

Miranda swallowed hard. This wasn't like her, but Violet would understand. And if she didn't, who cares. Miranda reached down for Andrea's hand and pulled her around the corner and through a doorway. They were in some sort of kitchen area that was adjacent to the lower terrace, and evidently not in use tonight.

Once the aluminum door closed, Miranda turned to lock it and felt the younger woman press her against the cool metal surface. "Ohh," she gasped.

Andrea pressed her entire body against the woman's and felt a quiver run through her.

"Andrea," she gasped.

The young woman could hear the raspiness in her voice and suddenly wondered—was she—already? She let her hand travel down the woman's side and felt her skin jumping beneath her touch. "Are you—"

"Yess," Miranda hissed before she was able to finish the question.

The young woman wrapped her arm around Miranda's torso and slipped her hand down, cupping her core through her pants. She could feel the heat and moisture through the flimsy cotton fabric and wanted nothing more than to tear them away. Miranda's hips bucked forward, so the young woman cupped her tightly, grinding her thumb against her clit.

"Ohhhh fuck," Miranda moaned. "Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck!"

Andrea held the editor tightly while her orgasm ripped through her body. With her other hand, she unclasped the jumpsuit and pressed her lips to the woman's shoulder.

Once she regained control of her body, she turned around and brought her hand up to cover her eyes. "My god, I am so embarrassed."

"What? Why?" Andrea asked. "You are incredible."

"I couldn't even last two minutes," she said. She was still trying to catch her breath.

"You are more beautiful than I remember," Andrea whispered. She gently pulled Miranda's hands from her face, and for a few moments they stood there in the dark, gazing into each others' eyes.

"You look older—and thinner," Miranda said with a frown.

"The camera adds ten pounds," she said. "I run everyday and watch my carbs."

Miranda placed her hands on the young woman's shoulders, then traced them down her torso to her waist and below. "I—I'm speechless. I—"

Andrea quickly slipped her fingers beneath the woman's chin and pulled her into a kiss.

They kissed for what felt like hours, until the older woman pushed away and sank to her knees. "I need to taste you," she said.

Andrea was wearing a high-waisted midi skirt, and as much as she wanted to see the editor's silvery white hair between her legs, having her up her skirt was infinitely more arousing.

The editor pushed her thong aside while she lapped and sucked at her drenched folds. Andrea lifted her left leg up and over Miranda's shoulder, and as she was nearing the edge, she could tell that Miranda, too, was close once again. She lowered her leg and stepped away, guiding the woman back up to her feet.

She pulled her in for another kiss, moaning as she tasted herself on the woman's lips. She fumbled for the side zipper on Miranda's jumpsuit, but once she found it, she pushed the top down and took in the editor's breasts, nestled perfectly within the sexiest corset she had ever seen.

"Fuck, Miranda," she gasped. She leaned forward and took a breast in her hands, palming and squeezing and licking and sucking. She turned her attention to the other, then alternated her hands and her mouth.

Miranda was writhing in pleasure and she laced her fingers through the woman's long chestnut hair, holding her in place.

Andrea bit down on her nipple, sending the woman's hips bucking wildly in her direction. Smiling, she kissed her way up her neck while she slipped her hand inside the woman's pants and plunged her fingers into her hot, slick center.

"Andrea!" she gasped, reaching forward and wrapping her arms around the woman's shoulders. "Oh! Oh! Ohh!" she shouted. As the young woman curled her fingers tightly inside, Miranda bit down on Andrea's shoulder and screamed into her flesh, sending Andrea over the edge with her.

Andrea stilled her hand as the pulsing muscles eventually slowed around her fingers. She pressed a kiss to Miranda's temple and carefully slid her fingers out. She could tell they were shriveled from being buried within her wetness. She pressed her index finger to Miranda's lower lip.

Miranda smiled and her tongue shot out, licking her fingers dry. She kissed the woman's lips, then pulled away and took a deep breath.

"I suppose we should be getting back. They're probably wondering where we are."

Andrea smiled and nodded, helping Miranda to zip and fasten her jumpsuit.

"Can I—"

"Andre—" they both spoke at once. "You first," Miranda said.

"Can I see you again soon?" she asked.

"I would be terribly disappointed if you did not come home with me tonight, Andrea."

Andrea smiled brightly. "I am not one to disappoint—not anymore," she added.

"Darling, that was the past. My disappointment was that I thought you failed to see me. But that's not what it was, was it?"

Andrea shook her head. "I did see you. I felt the power you had over me and it was frightening. I was still young, and…you have no idea how aroused I would get when you would say 'That's all,'" she said.

Miranda smirked. "That's—" she paused, "always good to know."

"You're awful," Andrea said, laughing at the way the woman teased her.

Miranda smiled and reached for the doorknob. "That's all."

.

.

The end.


End file.
